


The Unknown Distance to the Great Beyond

by ForensicSpider98



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Invasion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Being Lost, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Curtis gets a backstory, Death, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending, The Desert is not a fun place, just give it a chance, this is impossible to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 11:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25848544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForensicSpider98/pseuds/ForensicSpider98
Summary: Curtis Dayal walked five-hundred miles to get to Galaxy Garrison. Along the way, he lost himself and someone else. With nothing left, Curtis must build himself back up on the other side of the great beyond.The Curtis backstory everybody was too busy complaining to ask for.Trigger Warnings:-Death-Violence-Thoughts of Suicide/Death-General suffering
Relationships: Curtis/Original Male Character(s), Curtis/Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21





	The Unknown Distance to the Great Beyond

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this in my files for a while, following the end of Season 8. The character of Curtis intrigued me, as I was never fond of Adam (for Reasons). I couldn't help but wonder what kind of person he could be that Shiro would be willing to try love again.  
> Who is he? How did he get here?  
> We'll never know for sure (given we only know his name bc the mcfreaking subtitles told us -_-), but we can fill in the gaps with our own inventions.  
> This invention is mine, for your pleasure, catharsis, and/or contemplation <3<3<3

He comes to at the sound of the *beep*.

*beep*

*beep*

*beep*

When Curtis finds his body, it takes a small eternity for his eyelids to remember how to move. When they remember how to move, they open, and when they open, they see… a dark-skinned hand, emaciated and spidery, ashy and cracked, blistered, a tube attached at the back, nestled between two of the metacarpals. He can feel another, tugging at the crook of his arm.

White sheets, coarse beneath desiccated fingertips. His parched throat feels like sandpaper. The crags of his lips cling together. His body aches like a vicious flu. The *beep* is too rapid, despite his disorientation, and his head pounds.

Every single breath requires so much effort.

"Sir, please. He's not stable. His blood pressure is still too low-"

“Who are you?” _Who…_ Curtis blinks. Breathes. Hurts. “Hey.” Sharp. Fingers snap by his flinching ear. The sound rings on and on. “I asked you a question.”

“Sir, he is extremely disoriented.” The other voice. Female… Lights. Incandescent lights. “He is suffering from extreme fatigue, malnourishment, and dehydration. We weren’t even sure if…”

Everything fades.

***

“Curtis… Curtis… Baby, wake up.”

“No. Don’t wanna.”

“Come on, babe.” Jens’ smile is perfect. It always is. Moonage Daydream is playing all about their small stone house, inviting them to get to work. Their house is perfect, seemingly carved from the desert itself, right down to the craggy plant digging into the outside corners of the west and north walls, the agave hemming in their front yard. “We gotta get started.”

This work, for Curtis, is new. Instead of false nails and body glitter, he wears jeans and protective gloves. Instead of lace and leather, eyewear and a headband. And occasionally Jens, too. But their customers don’t know that.

Jens (pronounced ‘yens’) ‘Jenny’ (because Curtis messed it up ONE TIME and his lover is a stubborn donkey _bitch_ sometimes) Olafson can fix or build just about anything, so long as he doesn't need a computer to do it. He’s taught Curtis everything he knows, including how to modify weapons. Where Jens learned it, Curtis doesn’t know.

The Scandinavian man tucks a strand of blond hair behind his ear, smiling a pale-eyed smile. Curtis’ own blues smile back. “What’s on the table, today?”

“Well, the Grasons -next town over- are bringing over a tractor to repair, so there’s that. Then the Mirandas sent over a laser rifle. They want it upgraded to slaughtering specs. Pigs.”

“Hm. What class?”

“Four.”

“So, to use it on pigs, it’s gotta meet Class two, right? I can probably swing it, if I break the rules a tiny bit.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. C’mere, Tiny Dancer.” Jenny leans down, pressing a kiss to Curtis’ lips. Curtis still remembers meeting at the club after his shift, the way Jenny had asked for his name and number instead of a freebie. ‘Name and number’ had evolved quickly into ‘old music and complaining emphatically about dealing with clients’, which had evolved into this. This is good.

“Jenny, we gotta work...” 

Jenny climbs on top of him. “Right. Because you were _so_ keen to work two seconds ago.”

“Got me there.” Curtis pulls Jenny into his lap to straddle his hips. It’s not the first time this has happened. “But, if you think you’re calling any shots-” A kiss. “You’ve got another thing coming.”

“Like I ever call any shots.” Kiss. A soft gaze. “You… You really are the most beautiful thing out here, you know that?”

“Well I certainly like to think so.” Curtis grins that winning smile he once only used for tips. He left behind false smiles when he left behind a certain pair of stilettos. He doesn’t need that attention anymore, and he still feels busy enough to be satisfied.

Jenny laughs, works fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “A drop of water in the desert. So-” Kiss. “Beautiful. My Tiny Dancer.”

“Nothing about my dancing was tiny, and we both know it.”

“Yeah... Do you miss it?”

“Nope.” It’s the truth. Curtis had loved that job, but- “I like being stuck in the middle of buttfuck nowhere just fine.”

“Good."

"Speaking of which...” 

Jenny shrieks, laughs as Curtis flips them. Pale hands find dark shoulders. 

“When will the Grasons get here?”

“A couple hours. We’ve got-” Jenny breaks off, pushed Curtis up. Those pale gray eyes find the open hole in the wall that might have once had glass in it.

Outside, there’s a strange purple light. Something shining metallic? A flash of violet light in a daybreak sky, a burst of debris in the far-off distance. “Jenny? What is that?”

“Get dressed. We need to leave.” Jenny scoots up from under him, and Curtis sits dumbly on the bed, staring at that unearthly light. “Curtis, now! We have to go _now_!”

“Wh-” Curtis grabs his shirt. “Where are we going?”

“The only place I know that might be safe.”

***

Coming to is easier the second time. He’s less disoriented. The lighting is still harsh behind his lids; his entire body hurts- But he doesn’t feel like he’s dying. Not immediately. Slowly, prolonged. His chest aches, heart beating stubborn and unceasing in that dark, rasping crevice.

Every inhalation burns like his throat is full of grit. He feels like a corpse, dug up and reanimated. Frankenstein’s monster, alone and abominable. 

“Hey. Can you open your eyes for me?” They open. A pair of overcast mornings find their way into view. When’s the last time Curtis felt rain? 

He dreams of water. Drowning is as enticing as the sirens themselves.

He’ll never get clean. He’ll never wash it away. He just wants to scrub and scrub and scrub and scrub and-

“Hi. Nice to meet you.” The clouds crinkle at the corners, little rays of sun. “My name’s Shiro. What’s yours?”

“C-Curtis,” he croaks. He coughs a dry cough. His lungs are full of sand. His skin hurts, angry and loose on his shrunken frame.

“Nice to meet you, Curtis. Would you like something to drink?” Shiro doesn’t wait for him to respond, helping him sit up, working a straw to his cracked lips. Curtis manages to drink, manages to swallow instead of breathe. He can feel every bone that rests against that man's hand, nothing at all the act as a barrier. He's a skeleton with a heartbeat.

“You here to be nice to me?”

The smile fades. “I have to ask you some questions. But we can take our time. Perhaps I can just ask one question for now?”

The kindness in the voice -Shiro’s voice- burns like acid, stings like a lash. Curtis’ throat stings with salt and he chokes. “Please go away.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I know you’re in pain, but I have to ask these questions… I can bring in someone else, if you want. I’ve been told I’m rather intimidating.”

He’s not intimidating. Just big. He takes up all the space. Curtis glares at the drip still in his hand. It swims as water rims his vision. “ _Please._ I don’t want to talk.”

“I understand, and I am so sorry, but you arrived here under suspicious circumstances. You don’t have to answer right away, but I do have to get an answer. Jens Olafson was one of Garrison’s finest. I need to know how you ended up here wearing his identification tags. I knew Jens personally, and you are definitely not him.”

The guarded tone only barely edges in. It’s barely the hint of an accusation, but Curtis still feels it. He listens to the *beep* of the machine sound out faster and faster, like a child tattling on their older sibling.

“He was mine,” he finally whispers. “And then he was gone.” The answers come easier, once the words leave his mouth. They begin to flow from his mouth like the tears in his eyes. Air however, gets harder and harder to find. His lungs are too small, and some great weight presses on his chest.

Eventually, a hand finds his shoulder. A thumb draws circles. Circling, circling, circling the drain. Inhale. Exhale. _One step. One sip._ “It’s alright, Curtis. It’s alright. You don’t have to say anymore. Just rest. Rest… Rest…” The overcast skies darken to black.

When Curtis next comes to, he’s alone, a set of tags still in the hand where last he knew, warm fingers had settled.

***

It’s horrific. They were only in the bunker for a few minutes, and when everything was quiet, one look showed… Rubble. Bodies. Eerie silence where there used to be a town. By the time Jenny had finished rummaging through his little burrow, the vultures had found them. 

Curtis will never forget the sound of flies. Not ever.

They stumble over pieces of their house, pieces of their friends, pieces of their neighbor’s dog. Curtis stops to vomit. Twice. Jenny manages not to, but only just. Neither one manages to hold back the sobs.

Jenny throws a futile stone as one of the birds tries to drag away the arm of what was once a person. It comes back but moments later. 

Curtis is convinced that vultures will inherit the earth. Vultures, or nothing at all. Nothing will remain. Why should anything remain?

The earth should lie empty and dead and quiet like the town he so briefly called home.

“Baby? We have to go.”

“Where? You can’t tell me you have any idea what to do-”

“Yes, I do.” Jenny tugs on his arm. “Come on, Tiny Dancer. We have to go.”

Quite suddenly, Jens is a stranger. A stranger with weapons. Rucksacks. Boots. Plastic gallons of water. Iodine. Preserved foods. 

A stranger who is prepared.

He is a stranger who tells Curtis about Galaxy Garrison, the place that taught him how to fight, how to shoot, how to survive. That taught him about the stars.

Numb, Curtis lies with his beloved stranger under a blanket of night and tries to learn the names of all the stars. All he knows is astrology.

“How far is the Garrison from here?”

“About five-hundred miles,” Jens whispers.

“How-”

“We walk. I know where we can get water. I will get us there, I promise. We just have to keep walking and not stop.” Jens sighs. “Galaxy Garrison took me to the stars. Then, they recruited children to take to the stars. I didn’t agree, so I left. Deserted. Only one man watched me go, and only because he already knew I was going. I think he knew before I did.”

“An ex?” Curtis whispers.

“No. A friend. A brother, even.” Jens sighs. “Galaxy Garrison is the safest place in the world. And the only place that could possibly hold out against this.”

“Against… what?” They both already know.

“The people from the stars. It’s foolish to think we’re the only ones out there. Foolish to think that they’re any less violent than we are. My guess? We’re facing seventeenth century Britain on an interplanetary scale.”

“So… They wanna give us drugs and steal curry recipes?” The fact that they laugh at that is testament to the bleak nothing shimmering in every direction. “You never told me any of this.”

“I wanted to leave it behind. The thing about Garrison is… You cease to become a person. You’re erased. A drone in a hive mind. I became my mission. I wasn’t Jens, just a series of commands. Officer Olafson. Now, I’m Jens again. I’m _Jenny_. I like that person much better. He’s actually a person.”

Curtis wonders if it’s like dancing, where he slips inside another, invisible skin and makes himself into something else, something that he thinks people will enjoy, like better, use for something.

He breathes in Jens’s scent, tainted with sweat and death, but still so deeply familiar and precious. So precious.

For all he knows, they’re the only ones left. The empty desert threatens to smother him and swallow him whole.

***

The Atlas is a strange place. The number of people is something he’s no longer used to. He’s been given free range for the most part, a closet of a cabin for himself. Alone. He hates being alone just as much as he hates everything else.

The only time he’s really around other people is when he goes into the cafeteria.

Shiro hasn’t come to visit again, doesn't speak to him again for some time. Curtis sees him now, however. He’s sitting with the kids wearing special uniforms. One of those is rumored to be half-alien. Another is definitely an alien, in pink. That one is dating the one in blue, who is best friends with the one in yellow, who is best friends with the tiny one in green. The one in blue is also best friends -or something- with the half-alien one in red. The half-alien one in red is close to Shiro.

They’re a team, and they have their lives. Curtis has his weapons, and the childrens’ toys he makes from the scraps. He has a set of dog tags around his neck, bearing the name of everything he’s lost. He takes his tray of rations and sits at the far end of the long table, content to remain alone. Grieve alone.

“Curtis!” It’s the one in blue, sitting next to the one in red, who’s sitting next to Shiro. The one in red snickers into his sleeve. Shiro whacks them on the backs of their heads, which only makes them laugh more. A found family.

The one in blue waves him over. He obeys, as much a machine as the windup lizard in his pocket. “What do you need?”

“Well, the pleasure of your company, obviously.” The one in blue reminds Curtis of himself in times past. He dreads watching this one die, too.

“Only if you’re up for it,” Shiro cuts in, smiling. “This is Lance. Keith. Allura. Pidge. Hunk. And I’m-”

“Shiro. I remember. You questioned me when I arrived.” Curtis sits, begins to eat. He doesn’t talk. Not that day. Or the next. Or the next. But at their invitation, he rejoins them at every meal. Puts on weight. Regains his strength. His skin starts to fit again.

Eventually, Shiro asks him what music he likes. 

Like. To like. To enjoy. 

Curtis hasn’t thought about enjoyment in a long time, not in months. Eventually, he mumbles something about David Bowie, but only because Moonage Daydream has been playing in his head since the day the world ended.

Later, back in his designated cabin, with only his lamp and his tools and his tiny, minuscule purpose, Curtis receives a message from Captain Takashi Sirogane. It’s an audiofile. Curtis listens to Space Oddity on repeat for the next few hours, the next few days. 

He’s not sure exactly when, where, how, or why but at some point, he starts referring to the Captain as “Major Tom”.

***

Curtis will always hate the desert. 

He had loved the desert when he lived on the edge of a city and he came home every night doused in body glitter and reeking of strawberry perfume and vodka. He had loved the desert waking up side-by-side with Jenny in their dusty bed in their dusty house with no glass in the windows. He hates it now, when it never seems to end, when it just sprawls like a naked woman in a sepia photograph, empty beauty romanticized only by eyes that were never there. 

Jens walks beside him, vanishing before Curtis’ very eyes. It’s like the closer they get to their invisible destination, the less there is of him. Jenny is vanishing, to be replaced by Jens, to be replaced by Officer Olafson.

There’s nothing he can do. His spirit moans. It feels like he’s escaping his body. At one point, they pause, pulling water from Jens’ pack. He’s carrying their heaviest load today. Curtis will carry it tomorrow.

The arid heat sucks every speck of moisture from his lungs.

Jens stares into the distance behind them. “You wanna see something beautiful?”

“If you say the dessert, I swear I will break up with you.” Curtis takes a careful sip, takes Jens' hand with his free one so he knows he doesn’t mean it. 

Jens chuckles weakly. “No. Look. There’s a star.”

“Yeah, the sun-” There is a star, a glittering, silver star in the sunlit sky. An impossibility. “ _How?_ ”

“The desert is one hell of a place. I’ll explain it to you tonight. It’s… a lot to take hold of.” Jens turns to him, eyes deeply sad. “It will change your world. Just try not to think too harshly of it. Do you promise?”

“It can’t get any harsher.”

Jens doesn’t reply.

The men, the lovers, pick up their feet again. Curtis notices that Jens keeps glancing behind them. He assumes he sees something, some symbol in that silver star lighting up the daytime sky.

Jens focuses on his star, Curtis focuses on the tangible. The stones. The sand. The dust coating the inside of his mouth. The heat baking his lungs. The stubborn plants that work their way into the earth just like the people used to. 

Sweat sticks to his forehead, soaks through his hair, his clothes. It runs down into his eyes and it burns. His feet ache, blood from blisters having soaked through the leather of his boots some twenty miles back. 

Jens glances behind them again. “There’s a watering hole just ahead. We’ll fill up there, and then... We need to trade off. I’m sorry, but I can’t-”

“I’ve got you.” Curtis takes Jens’ sweat-soaked hand. “We’ll get there. Don’t you worry.” Curtis is much stronger than his mostly inactive partner. Jens has everyday strength. Curtis has the strength of a lifelong athlete and dancer. He can go longer and harder. He will.

They stop by a small pool hidden in an outcropping of rock. Drink their fill before Curtis ladles water into their jugs, drops in the iodine. Behind him, Jens fiddles with their packs. Before he can turn to the man, he brings their rucksacks to him. 

“Always look forward, Tiny Dancer,” he whispers. 

Jens' lips look much like the cracked stone around them. His skin is blistering from the sun, no matter how thickly Curtis slathers on their dwindling sunscreen. His own dark skin hasn’t seen a drop of it. He's burning past his melanin and his pale blue eyes are exhausted from the sun. Next to his extremely fair lover, he doesn’t complain.

Instead, he nods, shoulders the heavy pack with only moderate trouble as Jens struggles to lift the lighter one. “Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe we should downsize.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jens says, smiling a ghost of that bright smile Curtis misses so achingly much. “We’d better keep going.”

They keep going, on into the pitch black of night. Except…

It wasn’t black. It was purple. Violently purple. Curtis finally turns to look at the star. 

It’s not a star. 

It never was.

***

Curtis is almost surprised when Shiro sits next to him on the floor. Another part of him is not. This particular viewing glass is wide and long and strangely out of the way. A good place for the damaged to convalesce where they’re not an impediment to those who are whole. 

He stares at a void filled with stars, watching them all move by, minding their own business. 

“What’s up, Major Tom?”

“Guess I’m not the only one who comes here when they can’t sleep.”

“I’m fine.” A lie. A star. “Well… I’m fine when I’m busy. Then I’m not busy and-” Curtis takes in a shuddering breath, swipes at a tear. Even now, months later, he can’t stand the waste.

“And everything comes back. This is a good place to chase it away, I think.” Shiro stares out the glass. “You feel…” He gestures helplessly, lost for words.

“Nothing. I feel nothing. It’s so…” He’s helpless, too.

“I understand. Trust me, I understand… I knew him y’know. Jens. He was like a brother to me.”

“He said he had someone close. You never heard from him?”

“No. He went dark. I always wondered if he was okay. Since he had you, I guess he was _better_ than okay.” Those smiling cloud eyes stay fixed on the stars, but Curtis blushes nonetheless. “I’m glad. He deserved that. From what little I know of you, you must have made him very happy.”

“He, ah… I was a dancer. That’s how we met. He hit on me and uh, dumbass didn’t even recognize me fifteen minutes after my own show. Asked if I knew who ‘that one dancer with the red heels was'.” Curtis laughs a laugh as hollow as the Arizona desert. “He was okay with my work. I was the one who had issues with it… Ahh. I’m the kind of person who needs attention. I liked dancing because I got attention. But when I had Jenny…” Curtis wipes away more tears.

“That was all the attention you needed,” Shiro murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“I had someone. He died, too. While I was gone.” Shiro inspects his robotic hand. “I spent years trapped in Space thinking, ‘If I can just get home. If I can just get home, I can put it all back together. I can fix everything.’ And… It never would have worked. I became a different person, and undoubtedly so did he.

“The person who left Earth, the person who loved Adam, is long gone. As is the Adam who loved me. I want different things now. Value different things.”

Curtis nods, exhausted. He understands. The man he is right now could never have caught the meticulous eye of Jens Olafson. The man who inspected his work three times before calling it finished.

He wonders quite suddenly who fixed the Grasons’ tractor, if it had ever been fixed. Jenny would have done it better, regardless.

Shiro continues. “When you lose someone, they take with them the person that you were when they were with you. The Takashi that loved Adam died when he did. And the Curtis that loved Jens stayed with him, too.”

“So then… Who am I now?”

“Whoever you want,” Shiro whispered. “You and I are still here, and that is a precious gift. It’s our responsibility to do something with it. Have you thought at all about what you want to do?”

“I… Not really. I just want to rest, I think. I can’t rest here. I can’t sleep, and there’s so _much_ just- Everything! I-”

His lungs ache like they’re still scorched. A hand rubs his back, soothing, firm support. The weight of that life-saving pack. Curtis turns to the man next to him with the happy-cloud eyes and the silver-lining hair. “What do _you_ want to do?”

“Find somebody I can rest with when all of this is over.”

***

Jens tells him to run, and he runs. He runs, fleeing from that violent ray of light he cannot begin to understand. He runs, the water on his back driving him into the earth. He runs until his body gives beneath him and he stumbles, crashing, marooned on the desolate earth.

Sobs.

Breaks.

He is alone. Jens is gone and he is alone with no one and no way out of this endless hell. It’s dark. It’s so very dark. He curls up on the ground, drawing his brutalized knees, shins, elbows to his chest, trying to keep warm as night closes in and the temperature drops further and further. He imagines he’s sinking, being absorbed into the earth...

_“Go! Run! Run and do. Not. Look. Back!” Jenny turns Curtis in a direction and shoves. “I’m right behind you! Don’t stop!”_

_Curtis' only thought is to obey, sprinting across the desert with all his strength, his instincts driving him to live, to preserve himself. He trusts Jenny to keep up, for the contrast of their burdens to keep them together._

_That violet, life-ending light comes closer and Curtis dives beneath a massive boulder, curling tight and hoping he isn’t suffocated or crushed in the violence._

_When he crawls out, he’s alone. The buzzing…_

_The buzzing of flies…_

_Buzzing…_

_Buzzing…_

Curtis’ eyes fly open. He’s alive. He’s alive and Jenny is dead. He is alone in the desert and Jenny is dead and he is going to be dead, too.

How long does he have to live? He robotically pulls out his supplies. He ignores the buzzing of the flies. He knows why they’re there, knows what they’ve found. He can’t. He just can’t.

Jenny is dead.

Four gallons of water. A small bit of food. Sunscreen. Iodine. And…

 _The map._ The one with the land formations on it. The one Jenny used to match to the horizons. A compass. A pair of dog tags. Jenny’s tags. The ones from when he was at the Garrison.

It’s the hardest choice of his life, the choice to put everything back in the rucksack. The choice to stand up. The choice to lift that map to the horizon and point himself in a direction. The choice to take that first step forward into the unknown distance.

The choice to step into the great beyond.

***

“Hey. I thought I’d ask if you wanted to sit with us for lunch.” It’s Takashi again, extending the invitation because he knows Curtis won’t come if he doesn’t ask.

“Of course. Just let me finish this up.” Curtis continues with his diagnostics on the laser rifle. Shiro’s frame looms just behind. “Oh my God, stop hovering! Find somewhere else to be, Major Tom!” Curtis pushes against Takashi’s face. The captain just laughs, takes a step closer.

“So… What’s the deal with this one, huh?” Shiro prods at the weapon.

“Don’t know. Report just says, ‘broken’. I’m trying to figure out exactly how- LOOK OUT!” Curtis shoves Shiro to the ground, falling on top of him just as the rifle goes off. He blinks, ears ringing from the shot. An alarm sounds. He sighs, rests his head on Shiro’s chest. “So that’s how it’s broken.”

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” Iverson. Curtis suddenly realizes Shiro’s hands are on his waist. They’re cool, like water. “Are you getting yourself killed, Dayal? I don’t think I need to remind you how many resources we put into keeping your dumb ass alive.”

“No, Sir. I apologize for being a dumbass, Sir,” he mumbles. He sits up, rolling off his far-superior officer. “Also, can you please call…” Curtis pulls a crumpled slip of paper from the pocket of his coveralls. “Officer Sheridan to come here.”

The officer gets there, and Curtis lets him have it.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? YOU JUST HAND OVER A LASER RIFLE WITH A FAULTY FIRING MECHANISM AND SAY IT’S ‘BROKEN’? THAT’S CALLED A FUCKING DEATHTRAP YOU FUCKING MORON! YOU ALMOST KILLED US! WE COULD HAVE ENDED UP STUCK IN SPACE WITHOUT ANYBODY TO PILOT THE ATLAS! DO YOU WANT US ALL TO BE STUCK IN SPACE FOREVER?! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?!”

“Curtis.” A gentle hand finds his shoulder. “Let me handle this from here.” Shiro fixes the shaking officer with a disappointed stare. “Officer Sheridan. You are a fucking soldier. I expect you to act like it. Take responsibility for your weapon and have more regard for your fellow man. This lapse is not going to happen again. Understand?” The pale soldier nods, swallowing. “Good. I suggest you go back to your quarters and rethink your life.”

The officer flees the room, sniffling. Curtis whistles. “Wow. You made him cry.”

“Shame does that to a person. Now, join me- us. Join us for lunch.” Shiro makes to leave.

“I’d be happy to. Join you, I mean.” Curtis knows what he’s implied. He’s afraid, but sure. He’s still here.

And someday, he’d like to rest.

***

Desert...nothing but desert.

He’s still walking. He’s almost out of water. What is his name? He’s been thirsty for years. He only has two functions: find the shape on the horizon, and walk.

…

He’s out of water.

…

He hasn’t eaten in days.

…

He’s out of water.

…

The night is cold.

…

Water.

Sun. 

Water.

Cold.

He wants to die. 

He could just… sit. Close his eyes. Just sleep and not wake up.

He finds a ruined town. A well. He drinks too much too fast. Vomits. Remembers what to do. Drops the iodine. Waits. Sips. 

_Run. Keep running and don’t look back._

One sip. One minute. One sip. One minute. One sip. Dry bones. One sip. A skull, picked clean. One sip. A stroller. A fucking stroller, lying on its side. One sip. He doesn’t want to look at the stroller. One sip. Shade. Sweet, blessed shade.

His skin burns. He claws at it, blood and plasma cementing the dust under his cracked, overgrown fingernails.

There’s food in cans. In plastic. He eats, for the first time in days. Urinates, for the first time in days. He wraps his weeping feet. Drinks more water. Urinates again. Still dark. How is he alive?

Why is he alive? 

The desert has no answer except oppressive silence. The buzzing that follows him wherever he goes. Sleep. Wake up. Eat. Drink. Urinate. Shit. Sleep. Take one bucket of water at a time and scrub the death from his skin as best he can. Wrap his feet again.

Sit in the shade and listen to the last of the flies search for something to lay their eggs on.

It’s quiet now.

The universe is standing still.

Rest, as long he can manage before his programming pushes him onward.

Fill the jugs. Pick himself up. Take a step forward. Find the shape on the horizon. Don’t look at the stroller. Too late. Don’t cry. There are no tears, no water to spare. 

To grieve is to waste precious resources. 

Walk. 

Walk.

  
  
  


Walk.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Walk.

***

Central Command reminds him of Star Trek.

“Hey, Major Tom.”

“Oh, hey. Lunch later?”

“Yeah. I just gotta do some stuff to your control panel.” Curtis sets down his toolbox, gets on the roller, slides under Shiro’s station. He begins taking it apart, adding in the components as Sam instructed. “Sam’s adding in an override. If anybody, meaning him or me, does some stuff to your station, anyone can use it to a certain extent. Y’know, in case you croak on us.”

“Wow thanks.” Laughter. “I appreciate that vote of confidence.”

“Hey, man. I calls ‘em like I sees ‘em.” Curtis rolls out. “But for real don’t croak because you’re like, my favorite person on this great big Baymax in the sky.” He rolls back under.

“I love that movie. When he was a kid, it used to upset Keith because Tadashi reminded him of me.”

Curtis pauses in his wiring. “Oh, fuck. Dude. That’s… I can see that way too well. Movie ruined. Nice job-AH!” He shrieks as electricity shoots through his hands. “What the fuck?!” He rolls out, hair standing on end, face blackened.

“Sorry! One of the buttons lit up and I-”

“Oh so you thought you’d press it, did you? Dumbass!”

Shiro stares. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Hell no. Spit on her, maybe. Don’t push anything else.” 

Shiro laughs, quietly at first, but then louder. Curtis pauses, shakes his head, continues his work. But that laugh keeps going, the large man sitting on the floor nearby. It’s a good thing to witness. “You-” Shiro wheezes.

“Me.” Curtis grins, finishing up his job. He puts the casing back together.

“You are just so-” A breathy gasp. “Words fail me.”

“Most people go with ‘hot-headed.’ Or ‘whorish,’ but I mind that one.”

“That’s a start.” Shiro grins at him. “You have soot on your face.”

“And whose fault is that, hm?” Curtis scowls, good-natured even as he glares. “You could have ruined my money-maker!”

“The other day, you said your ass was your money-maker.”

“I am made of money-makers, Takashi. You know this.”

“Hm. I’ll have to take your word for it.” He’s so good-natured, this man. He smiles so easily, even as he struggles to fall asleep, to stay asleep. 

Curtis finds himself forever in awe. This man wrestles happiness into him and back out of him again so easily. He’d felt nothing but a hollow ache for so long that it feels alien.

“Takashi?”

“Curtis?”

“Can uh. Can I stay with you tonight? I sleep better that way.”

Long silence. The flies come back. 

“Yes. And… I do too, just so you know.”

Laughter drowns out the buzzing.

***

Water. He’s out of water. He’s been out of water for too long. Days.

How is he alive?

Why is he alive?

What is the point of being alive?

He stumbles. Falls. Gets up. Walks. Stumbles. Falls. Gets up.

He doesn’t know how to do anything else. There’s not enough of him left to do anything else.

A structure in the distance. A manhole, a fence just beyond. 

Open the cover. Scream a silent scream. 

Everything hurts.

He’s so tired.

Put his foot on the ladder. Slip immediately.

Fall. The jangle of Jenny’s tags.

Hit the ground. Jangling stops.

Sleep.

This is it. He can’t get up. The floor digs into his bones, or his bones dig into the floor.

The world swims like the water his body has given up. 

Let him rest. 

Let him rest.

Let him rest.

Footsteps.

Rest.

Voices. Voices buzz like flies.

Rest. 

Flies.

“ _Oh my god. Griffin! There’s... a body!”_ The world of water ripples. He breathes. _“Oh my- Holy- GRIFFIN! He’s- He’s alive! Get help! I need help! Hey. It’s gonna be okay. Just stay with us alright? Jesus fuck-”_

Rest.

***

When Curtis manages to hack his way into the room that’s technically not their room because it’s actually only Shiro’s room, but it might as well be their room these days, he finds its assigned occupant in a corner, in the dark. Or rather hears him.

He hears the sobs: barely-breathing, insides-bleeding sobs that sound like something is lost and a piece of someone’s heart is missing.

Nothing needs to be said. There’s nothing at all to say and even if there was, neither of them have the energy. That energy died when their universe disappeared, then reappeared minus one.

Somewhere on this Great Big Baymax in the Sky, a half-galra is no doubt holding a different broken man in his arms, trying to keep his pieces together.

The boys are there. Curtis is here.

Of all the things a person can feel, the void is the most potent. It aches like Tantalus’ stomach, eternally empty. It’s a void. It’s not supposed to be filled. The only thing to be done is cover it with whatever’s available and hope that eventually you forget it’s there.

You never truly forget.

The sobbing stops. How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? Days? It doesn’t matter. Curtis is still standing here.

“Takashi.” Curtis sits down next to the destroyed captain. “Hey. Can you open your eyes for me?” They open, sunshower clouds shot through with red. “There you are.”

“Here I am.” Like a child. Like some shattered game of hide-and-seek, where you're looking for yourself and maybe, just maybe, you finally found it.

“Here we are.” Curtis puts an arm around Shiro’s shoulders, holds him close. “We’re still here. We’re still here, remember?”

“But she-”

“She’s gone. I know. I felt it. We all did. The moment I came back, I knew she was gone.”

“My best friend.”

“Yes. I know. She’s gone. But we’re still here. We’re still here.”

They’re all still here. In the morning, stiff and sore from sleeping curled up on the floor, from the abuse their bodies have witnessed, they’re still here.

They’re still here.

They’re still here.

  
  
  
  


They’re still here.

  
  
  
  
  


It’s like peace, over time. Loss is like peace. It’s an empty sort of peace, but that’s what it feels like. Then there are the things that you gain. 

A second chance. A warm body beside your own. A cabin in the middle of nowhere where it rains so very often and everything is green and moist and it’s not a desert.

Curtis will always hate the desert, the way the blood stays on top of the earth to dry in the sun. He sits on the porch, a set of tags forever heavy around his neck. Shiro bears two sets around his own. They don’t begrudge the other’s grief, the weight of those chains they choose to wear, can't bear to slough off like the uniforms they've both discarded.

Speaking of Shiro, he kneels in front of the porch, planting flowers for the spring. Green, growing, and not the desert.

There are scars on Curtis’ feet from his march. Shiro’s body is riddled with them. They ache, in more ways than one. 

Pain is an old friend.

But they push on. Move forward. There’s no need to run anymore, so they walk. One step. One sip. One step. One sip. Stop and rest. Sit in the shade. Lounge under a tree. One step. One sip. Take his hand. March. Embrace your brothers-in-law, in-arms. Plant your feet. Make love in the dark, tucked away where the stars won’t watch. Put down roots. Bend in the storm so that you do not break.

The others, the ones Shiro calls family, will be fine. The empty peace is there to keep them afloat, to bear them up like a dirty soap bubble, shining iridescent.

There are things to relearn. How to love, and be loved. How to reach out. How to start over, start fresh.

Start like it’s the first time. 

Start like you’ve never seen life before.

Start like it’s your first day in the universe.

Start like you’ve seen the worst life has to offer and you’re going to weave the best yourself.

Start like your heartbeats are being counted out on a machine, like the water has no bottom and the desert is as finite as the life of a fly.

One step. 

One sip. 

March. 

Plant your feet. 

Put down roots. 

And grow.


End file.
